Page 44 of Wraith

“It’s the only answer you’re getting right now.”

I should argue. I should demand to know. I should take back control because that’s what I do, that’s who I am, that’s how I’ve survived every bad situation I’ve ever been in.

But I don’t.

I just close my eyes and let June drive.

The truck moves through streets I don’t recognize. Turns I don’t track.

When I open my eyes again, we’ve stopped.

I blink. Look around. Try to make sense of what I’m seeing.

We’re in a parking lot. Small. Mostly empty. There’s a building in front of us — single-story, brick, with a faded sign that reads Ironwood Falls Veterinary Clinic in blue letters that have seen better years.

“June,” I drawl. “Why are we at the vet?”

She’s already out of the truck. Already coming around to my side. She opens the passenger door and reaches for me as if she’s going to help me out, and I realize with a strange, detached awareness that I need the help.

“Because you need someone to look at that wound. And we can’t go to the Devils’ doctor. So we’re going to a different kind of doctor.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“You sure barked like one earlier when Molly was visiting.”

The laugh that comes out of me is unexpected. Short. Pained. But genuine. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” She’s grinning now. Actually grinning. “I seem to remember you being very obedient. Very convincing. Best bark I’ve ever heard.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She gets her shoulder under my arm, taking some of my weight. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before you bleed out.”

I let her guide me toward the building. Each step is a negotiation between my body and my will, and my body is winning.

“Where did you get this damn idea?”

“Breaking Bad,” she says as we reach the door. “And other shows like that. When someone needs medical attention but can’t go to a hospital, they go to a vet. Vets know anatomy. They know how to stitch. They have the right equipment. And they’re used to patients who can’t talk, so they won’t ask questions we don’t want to answer.”

“You learned that from television.”

“I learned a lot from television.” She pulls open the door. “Most of them are useless. But some of them, apparently, are useful for moments exactly like this.”

We step inside. The clinic is small. Clean. Smells like antiseptic and dog. There’s a desk with a tired-looking woman behind it who looks up when we enter, her eyes going from June to me to the hand I’m pressing against my side.

“We need help,” June says before the woman can speak. “It’s an emergency.”

The woman stands. “Is that blood? Is he bleeding?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t take people as patients.”

June cuts her off. Her voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t sharpen. But there’s something in it that makes the woman stop talking. “Please. We need help. Now.”

The woman hesitates. Then nods. “I’ll get Dr. Morrison.”

She disappears through a door marked Staff Only.